You're standing somewhere in your grandparents' yard when you realize that there's a pond. With the pond being drained a long time ago, you are pleasantly surprised of its elusive existance, wondering how you have failed to notice it all this time. Sometimes the pond is where you remember it being, and other times it is elsewhere in the grandparents' yard. The water is always crystal clear, the pond sometimes overflowing its edges, but always growing in depth and circumference. Looking beneath the surface, you see every detail of its lining, and as you make out the terrain, fish appear, simple at first, then larger and more colorful ones gracefully materialize out of the woodwork, their size and grandeur keeping pace with the expansion of their habitat.
You wake up feeling a deep impression, as if wisdom was bestowed upon you in a language in need of deciphering.
Enlightenment. Complete and confident understanding without knowing the details. At least, that's my definition.
I have since stopped having this dream. Either I'm enlightened, or I've completely missed the point.
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